Page 21 of Fake Dark Vows
Perhaps it wouldn’t bother me so much if I didn’t believe that she’d engineered the whole situation. It’s a conversation that I’m not looking forward to having with my mother.
I hear voices outside and check the time on my wristwatch. 17:57. I recognize Ron Valentine and his wife Sumaira. Of course, my mother invited them—Ron and my father have been friends since Harvard.
Only, unless Ron enlightened them to our recent business transaction, they don’t know that I’m about to close on a deal that will buy Ron out of his company for an obscenely low figure and increase Weiss Petroleum’s turnover by at least twenty percent over the next five years.
Ron initially came to me for a loan to help his company stay afloat, riding on the back of their lifelong friendship, but there was nothing in it for me. I’m not in the business of money lending because I have a soft spot for someone who’s gotten caught out in the economic swing. To stay on top, you have to think on top. No allowances.
I’ll simply have to enforce my mother’s ‘no business talk’ rule for the next seven days, especially where it concerns Ron Valentine.
Jennifer, taking my silence as a nod that the conversation is over, shrugs off my shirt and crosses the room, naked, to the walk-in dressing room. I follow her with my eyes and then turn back to the window where my mom has made an appearance in a canary-yellow shift dress, presenting her cheek to Sumaira to be kissed.
“How do I look?”
Jennifer is stunning in an off-the-shoulder, floaty black dress with a scarlet-poppy design and black heels. She turns three-sixty like she’s on a catwalk, and I can’t help smiling because she’s still wearing nothing underneath.
“You know you look incredible as always.”
“Incredible enough to impress your mom?” The tone is light-hearted—Jennifer isn’t here to impress my mom.
“Mention your dear friend George Clooney and you’ll have her eating out of the palm of your hand.”
My father holds court in his favorite lawn chair on the porch.
He’s aging well—no one would ever guess that he was seventy if the invitations didn’t state the reason behind the week-long celebrations. His forehead is unlined, his eyes are still bright-blue, and his smile is wide, the crinkles fanning from the corners of his eyes, telling the story of a lifetime of laughter and joy rather than stress and hard work. I’m lucky that I’ve inherited his genes while Damon takes after our mother’s side of the family.
Rose waits discreetly at one end of the porch, monitoring the liquid levels in the glasses and stepping in to provide refills and lemon slices when required. Ines never looked so good in the uniform of black capri pants and sky-blue shirt.
Her gaze drifts back and forth between the guests’ drinks and my father, and I wonder if she really has set her sights at the top of the tower. He’s still a good-looking man, classically handsome, with thick silver hair. But, as far as I’m aware, he has never cheated on my mom despite the opportunities that must’ve come his way when he was younger.
Rose brings us dry martinis with green olives on cocktail sticks. She keeps her eyes on the silver tray as if afraid to spill a drop, and only raises them to smile at Jennifer when she thanks her for the drinks.
“I never noticed it before,” Jennifer leans close and whispers in my ear so that no one else can hear, “but your manners seem to evaporate outside the boardroom.”
Before I can think of a suitable response, she makes a beeline for Sumaira.
The vacated spot beside me is instantly filled by my brother. “Mom will see right through the expensive clothes, you know,” he says, tipping his head back and swallowing the last of his martini.
I don’t need to ask who he’s talking about. “Well, then, she’ll like what she sees.”
“I do.” He tugs an olive from the cocktail stick with his teeth and studies the bottom of his glass as if he doesn’t know how it got emptied.
“She isn’t for sale.” I keep my voice low, and my jaw clenched ready to produce the desired smile on demand should someone want to join the two Weiss brothers in conversation.
“That’s not what I heard,” Damon says. “I’d say I could afford to pay for her time.”
“Jennifer is with me.”
I catch Ron’s eye and give him a brief nod. It’s what’s expected, even at a private party on our parents’ private island. The façade never drops. When you’re in a position of power, you learn never to get caught with your pants down and your wallet open.
“For Dad’s sake, I’m trusting you not to say anything to Mom about how I know Jennifer, or why she’s here.”
“Or what, big brother?”
“Or nothing.” I sip my martini, trace the liquid as it burns its way down. It’s going to be a long week—I only hope my mother has stocked up the liquor cabinet.
“Sounded like there was an unveiled threat in there somewhere.”
Rose approaches us then with a filled glass for Damon. He takes it, his fingers lingering a beat too long on hers around the stem of the glass. I’ve seen it before. Damon chooses a target and switches on the charm, seemingly oblivious to his wife and kids, and doesn’t stop until he gets what he wants.